


the madly sad king

by craicslave



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: King Louis, King Zayn, M/M, Other, Royalty AU, harry is gone, just bare with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2023167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craicslave/pseuds/craicslave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis is madly sad. zayn is a beautiful offshore king that might have some words of wisdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the madly sad king

**Author's Note:**

> Poems mentioned and or used:  
> Untitled by Jonathan Greene  
> This Morning by Raymond Carver
> 
> Thank you to Shelby(@vulounerable) for reading it and restoring confidence in myself, you actually did more than you think you did. Reading someone else's work might seem 'meh' but it takes such load off the writer when they realise it makes sense to other people too. Because when you write you have all these scattered dots that you want to put into a story – and they're all there in your mind so you see them clearly - and when you write you hope to God they connect in the right way for other people to understand.
> 
> And thank you Melissa(@ridiculoued) for tweeting that picture with a prompt that fucking changed my fucking life. Sorry for the excessive use of the word fuck but you will never understand how much you helped. I have been writing this shitty little piece for three whole months and I have this other fic I'm writing that needs a lot of research and I couldn't work on it without finishing this piece of motherfucking shit. So thank you Melissa for dm'ing me about Peter Pan Louis and King Louis with me, I'm going to shoot myself in the head, okay.
> 
> To everyone who reads this: FUCKING READ THIS BECAUSE IT STOPPED ME FOR THREE MONTHS FROM WRITING A 20'S LARRY AU WHERE LOUIS IS GANGSTER AND HARRY IS SOME SORT OF HONEST GATSBY!!!!!!

he falls. 

instead of falling into the deep blue with mosaic tiles that call at him from the edge of his bedroom window he falls into a different kind of blue.

louis falls into a blues.

louis cries. _cries cries cries_. why couldn’t he cope with tragedy like a normal person? why couldn’t he just be fucking okay? why is there no clear beginnings to things nor definitive ends? _why why why._

louis can’t find words for what he feels. he is sure it’s something remote and blue. unipolar depression, panic attacks, anxiety, wisps of smog that choke him by filling up his lungs, clogging his blood vessels, and banking a knot in his throat that leaves him winded.

harry was the nimbus around louis' royal, swimming around him when louis’ blue were welcoming waters. harry was the ebb in louis’ sea, that’s how they would fall asleep. in constant motion – like waves of oceans, infinite and lulling – against each other’s sandy beaches, pebbled with offshore clamour of the real world.

they believed time to be theirs, they believed it all started and finished with them. louis understood it wasn’t so when there had been a last squeeze at his hand, the final shout, harry’s decent to the underground _._ he left louis halfway between his birthdays, he left with louis’ life-line of _them_ around his throat like a noose that he dragged after himself tightening on louis’.

there are no beginnings nor ends to things.

there is just louis.

crown disheveled on his head as he cries rivers that flood his kingdom.

_louis, the madly sad king._

that’s what people call him.

louis guesses it can’t be that bad to be _the madly sad king_. louis guesses it’s better than just being a madly king or merely a sad king.

_madly sad king_. he saviours it by whispering it, lets it roll of his tongue once more, eventually screams it at the top of his lungs.

the madly sad king ensues to drink a lot, his leg swung against the armrest of his throne while the opposite rest cuts into his back. the wine has made his mind fuzzy, it vibrated enough to not make him notice how the wood is digging in between his ribs.

he loves wine even though it tastes disgusting, he fucking hates wine but its gets his mind just right. it seeps into his blood and makes him feel… warm?

no. not warm. louis is cerulean frost.

louis retreats back to his chambers.

he reminisces.

he reminisces about harry. his unceremoniously _red red red_ lips and their cardinal singe when they press to louis’ azure. fuck, that boy had raw lips, with no contours that made them plump and blasphemously infinite.

he reminisces about a poem harry read to him about a butterfly by some jonathan greene, it’s untitled and louis likes that. likes that the poem about the butterfly that transports from a shoulder to a rotting log is untitled, just like life. because what’s the title of life if not _untitled._ it reminds him of harry and how fleeting _untitled_ is, it reminds him of how harry used to fall asleep with his lips on louis’ shoulder and later… was transported to rot underground.

–

he falls.

louis has a habit of _drinking drinking drinking_ and falling into his pool.

it’s a habit.

he tries to suffocate and drown his lungs but the guards are always too fast and he barely loses consciousness. he hates resurfacing, being brought up from the water and sliding back into his skin – that has shrunken and crumpled up into a raisin – and it all feels bad.

it’s more of a routine.

one day louis jumps and no one saves him, no one jumps in after him, and he is slightly worried that something has happened. so, he fights against the weight of the water that presses on his chest, the water that seeps into the crevices of his garments and weighs him down.

‘your diving skills are abhorrent’ louis hears when he gets out of the pool. the caramel and velvet voice wraps around him like the much needed towel. the wind blows at the licked surfaces of louis’ body and _it’s really fucking cold._ but he grits his teeth against the ice that coats him, he balls his fists at his intrusive guest, and walks solemnly towards his castle – _his_ castle. there should be no need for royal visits.

‘what is it you’re waiting for?’ the offshore prince, zayn, purrs out of his place under the unnecessary parasol. the madly sad king lets his head hang low on his body, craned forward in an abnormal angle, his hand on the sandy surface of the entrance to his home. ‘are you seeking closure or waiting for time to stop?’

‘there are no endings.’

‘and time never stops. even if you are desperate for it to stop, life is endless and infinite.’ zayn runs his hands on the textile that dances against the wind, a madly sad grin from the door kisses at the bat of his brown eyes, ‘a diamond is infinite and endless as well, you have it and you’re stuck. you can’t melt it, you can’t reshape it, the diamond you get is what you have. appreciate it, adorn it, wear it to every event, because… you might as well.’

‘diamonds are not appropriate at every event.’

‘this,’ zayn suddenly rises, his draping shawls in warm colours of deep orange and shocking pink spilling between brown and purple, the azure necklace burning louis’ eyes. ‘life, my darling, is an event you make yourself. if diamonds are not appropriate at _this_ feast it is because you have decided so, and only you can change the agenda of your event.’

‘is it then appropriate to change the decor after the guests have arrived and made themselves feel at home?’ louis contests, his head turned up fully now and staring into zayn’s burnt oak irises that have walked to face him.

zayn smiles, shakes his head in dismay but with a hint of content, as if louis has fallen into his trap, ‘you are confusing guests with shadows, my grace. if a guest makes themselves feel at home in your house, they’re either ill mannered or a daemon that is simply not real.’

‘and you?’

‘i am very ill mannered,’ zayn says and swats his hand at the air, batting away nonsense admitting otherwise. ‘i have more paramours than i can count, i love men as i love women, and i can’t seem to tell my own children from each other. in your world i am very ill mannered.’

louis can’t tear his eyes from him. and although his breath hitches in anger. and although he wants to slap the smiling prince before him. and although he can feel the boiling blood beneath his skin create ripples and seep out of his body. louis can’t tear his eyes from him.

zayn stays, his eyes a mellow brown that shifts to the colour of the desert and as he blink louis sees twilight for the first time. louis sees zayn’s balls of fire sink towards the rim of the eyelids, towards tomorrow, and louis’ doesn’t want today to end.

–

he falls.

louis falls in love with zayn.

louis continues to be blue. his skin bruised with blue from crying, his mood blue with sorrow, and his eyes a blue that cracks harder than ice.

louis think, if he is in love with zayn why won’t the ice-cracking blue in his eyes relent?

zayn answers him, ‘you are not in love with me but with the idea of being in love with me.’

‘how so?’

‘you take one lover, right?’ zayn asks but waits for no reply. ‘at a time, you take one lover. loving someone else signifies for your subconscious that you are over your past lover. which you are not. hence, rendering the possibility of you having fallen in love with me impossible.’

and he is right.

‘will i ever get over harry?’ and it’s the first time he has said his name in a very long time.

‘no’ zayn’s voice echoes, sing-songs between his ribs, jabs at his heart, and dies out in his veins.

louis still drinks chardonnay, still tears at walls, and he thought his expressed sadness was only a fraction of what lay behind. he dares not scratch at the wall in his chest so he scratches on the walls of his room.

‘harry’ louis whispers to himself, remembers how it used to roll off his tongue so effortlessly.

there is no tidal wave. there is no earth shattering scream erupting from louis’ throat that keels him over. there is nothing. only calmness. louis realises that everything is strangely infinite; we wake up and go to sleep and that is life. there is nothing more to it. there are no story lines running parallel to each other. zayn and louis and the entire world are all assembled at one point on the sword edge – life – going in an infinity symbol. and they go round and round and round.

‘my daughter lost her lover too’ zayn continues and shifts in the bed next to louis. ‘she was madly sad for a long time’

‘you look too young to be married’

‘oh no, i’m not married, we don’t marry where i come from’ zayn inhales ‘we have paramours’ zayn exhales.

‘that sounds lovely’

‘you should come out some time, see your kingdom, peruse what is yours’ zayn says.

‘you said your daughter _was_ madly sad?’

‘she got better’

‘how does one go about getting better?’

‘you know what you have to do, louis…’

–

he falls.

louis falls into a mind numbing war with himself.

he wants to get better, he needs to get better, he can’t go on if he doesn’t get better

louis treads down the stairs of his castles slowly, carefully, timidly. the gold crown weighs down on his head and he likes the pain from the cuts it leaves on his scalp. 

‘harry’ he whispers bravely and there’s a noise at the bottom of the stairs that turns his stomach, makes the salt of his tears sear in the wound just below his ribs. ‘harry’ he says again and half runs down the stairs, ready to have his doublet fall to reveal the knife in his back he had ignored for so long. ‘harry’ the word almost gives him life and he trudges closer to dungeons. ‘harry’ he says with every breath to keep him focused and remind him of the twist of the dagger in his heart. ‘harry’ he whispers with his face pressed between the bars to the cell he has kept himself away from.

‘louis’ comes out a whimper from inside the cell.

louis refuses to look in, he turns to the torches and his eyes linger on the fire as it blazes around the wet cloth. louis wants to be that fire that consumes the wet cloth, he wants to take anything and everything from it to sustain his flame. but louis knows _he_ is the wet cloth, constantly damp with his tears and always _used used used._

louis was not ready for confrontation. he rarely asked questions, he rarely demanded answers, he was a quiet king that would only take the information that was forced on him. louis was never ready for confrontation.

now louis was confronting, he was confronting this invincible task that lay before him. he had spent three years glinting at this half open door, this glimmer of hope and dread, and now he was passing through it. louis had expected something – _something_ – but he was again met with calmness. the new room complimented his skin better, he could now feel how cramped the space he had previously occupied was. louis thinks that maybe unknown waters are warmer than the comfortable cold you make yourself used to.

‘louis’ and a hand extends to his cheek, the touch reignites memories, burns at his skin but it’s a welcoming burn. louis _wants_ to be the wet cloth, louis _doesn’t mind_ being the wet cloth, fuck he would be a particle on that wet cloth just to experience this fire, this roaring lion mane that runs along the cool of his cheek. he turns into it, lets the thumb catch his tear.

‘you betrayed me’ louis whispers, too scared to let his voice rise and expose its frailty, refuses to let his eyes sink on the prisoner. 

‘i betrayed us’ the man replies in an even more hushed manner, dried tears having formed wells on his cheeks that lets the new ones run down more easily. the colour of his eyes are indistinguishable from the red that drowns his irises. his cheeks are covered with a full grown beard, a testament of his three year long wait, and his hair falls below his shoulders. ‘i never meant to, my love, i don’t know what went through my mind. i love you, i loved you, i will always love you.’ his breath hitches and louis can feel how his lungs are fighting for air, remembers how they always struggle with fighting for air. louis wants to give him air, wants to bathe him with the blues of his eyes, wants to bask in the beauty that lies in his features.

‘harry’ and that word means so much now. five letters that seem to have been randomised, put together and gained the liking of someone a long time ago. it means louis hates him for what he did but loves him, he is unable to fall any further, unable to fall for someone else.

_‘where i gazed at the sea, and the sky, and the gulls wheeling over the white beach far below. all lovely. all bathed in pure cold light. but, as usual, my thoughts began to wander.’_ harry tugs at louis with his other hand, his one hand still on louis’ cheek.

‘no poems harry.’

_‘i had to will myself to see what i was seeing and nothing else. i had to tell myself this is what mattered, not the other. and i did see it, for a minute or two! for a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrong –‘_ harry hiccups, or conceals a tear, louis is too lost in the beauty of the poem. louis understands the poem, he understands harry, he understands what he has to do, but it is so hard to forgive when you have spent so long resenting. louis turns his back to harry who claws at his back, his _low low low_ voice gets louder. _‘duty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how i should treat my former wife. all the things i hoped would go away this morning._ louis don’t leave me. _the stuff i live with every day. what i’ve trampled on in order to stay alive._ louis my love, i love you, i love you, i love you’ harry sniffles and falls to his knees, the hard ground unkindly meeting him and he continues, _‘but for a minute or two i did forget myself and everything else.’_ his tears are now uncontrollably defending and for the first time it it is not louis who is falling. _‘_ louis, do you hear the poem? _BUT FOR A MINUTE OR TWO I DID FORGET MYSELF AND EVERYTHING ELSE. I KNOW I DID. FOR WHEN I TURNED BACK I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE I WAS._ LOUIS I NEED YOU TO REMIND ME WHERE I AM, LOUIS I NEED YOU TO FLY LIKE THE BIRD IN THE POEM, I NEED YOU TO GUIDE ME BACK.’

harry’s voice booms through the castle and louis finally tears himself from harry and goes, he runs up the steps and back to his room. and louis falls again and hopefully for the last time, he jumps into the pool and cries in the water. he hits his chest like a barbarian and lets the crown fall on his neck and he lets the water consume him he lets the flame consume him he lets himself be _used used used._ a roar erupts from his chest and it is loud and it makes the birds fly. _there’s your direction,_ louis thinks and sinks himself lower in his very own pool of blue. and louis doesn’t want to get back up and be forced back into his skin, albeit it being sat in a slightly more open setting. louis wants to fall and forget all his memories, he wants to un-hear the poems harry used to whisper in his ear, he wants to remember their clear beginning and mark their definitive end.

and then louis realises it doesn’t matter anymore.

he gets out of the pool, crawls back into his skin, breathes the air that has been so tainted by crime contempt love. and louis really doesn’t know the difference between the three.

and then louis realises that in life we make awful mistakes, in life we do things but they are left behind and we cannot return to them, in life it is best to leave things behind and start towards new things.

‘finish the poem’ louis says, and he is back for the unruly man that has fallen to his knees with a body wrecked in sobs.

_‘until some birds rose up from the gnarled trees._ louis please kill me i can’t live like this, you can’t live like this-‘ harry’s lips are flat and louis wants to kiss them back to how they were. ‘finish the poem.’ _‘and flew in the direction i needed to be going.’_ harry’s shoulders stagger, they shake, they vibrate to the rolling of his heart and the thumping of his brain. louis unlocks the door, louis lets harry out, louis looks at harry.

–

he falls.

louis falls out of the carriage when they come to visit zayn. harry stumbles out behind him and clutches louis’ hand in his. a tomato is thrown at harry and they’re used to it, harry’s used to it, louis might love it. zayn doesn’t like harry and that’s okay. zayn’s paramours liam and niall don’t like harry either and that’s okay too. harry doesn’t like harry either, no one really likes a villain even though they’re mighty intriguing.

louis still wakes up in the middle of the nigh and scratches at the wallpapers. louis still runs out of his bedroom window and cannonballs into the pool, falling down slowly and heavily into the water. louis still won’t say harry’s names for days on end but the other days, oh the other days are so great it’s worth the wait and pain.

and they mend whatever it was that they broke so long ago. with scotch tape and a bottle of liquor to calm their nerves when they can’t seem to find a missing piece.

louis’ blue becomes a bit warmer, cerulean instead of cerulean frost. harry’s eyes remain colourless and that’s how it should be, something should be bereft of him. thieves lose their hands, murderer’s lose their lives, cheaters should lose the little bit of light of colour that distinguishes their eyes from everyone else’s.

 


End file.
